To a Sexton

Let thy wheel-barrow alone.Wherefore, Sexton, piling stillIn thy bone-house bone on bone?'Tis already like a hillIn a field of battle made,Where three thousand skulls are laid.These died in peace each with the other,--Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!From this platform eight feet square, Take not even a finger-joint:Andrew's whole fire-side is there.Here, alone, before thine eyes,Simon's sickly Daughter lies,From weakness, now, and pain defended,Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride,How he glories, when he seesRoses, lilies, side by side,Violets in families.By the heart of Man, his tears,By his hopes and by his fears,Thou, old Grey-beard! art the WardenOf a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,Let them all in quiet lie,Andrew there and Susan here,Neighbours in mortality.And should I live through sun and rainSeven widow'd years without my Jane, O Sexton, do not then remove her,Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover!